


The Way Back

by LadyFangs



Category: Brotherhood (TV 2006)
Genre: F/M, Heartbreak, Reconciliation, Redemption, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: God really does look out for babies and fools, and Michael Caffee is no baby. Three years after fleeing Providence a second time, one step ahead of the mob, and two ahead of the cops, Michael is clean, sober and trying to start over.But he's burned so many bridges that he's got only one place to turn. Not a place, but a person. The one who he left behind. The one who got away.(Sequel to "Fresh Air)
Relationships: Michael Caffee/Original Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue:**

Three years isn’t that long, he tries to reason with himself. The car he’s driving is older than that. Older than his former one, and that Cadillac was bought 10 years ago. Before the first time he had to leave. Before the second time he had to leave. Before…everything.

Nah. Three years isn’t that long, but 10…yeah. That’s how much time he’s lost. He can see it in his own face. The hair at his temple starting to gray a bit, flecks of it in his beard. His body doesn’t move the same as it used to but it’s not too bad, he thinks, as he drums his fingers on the steering wheel and peers out the sideview mirror—more of a habit now, forged from years of having to watch his back.

He’d lied to that dental assistant years ago when she asked about it—he knows how he got the scar. He got it because he slipped up once. He’s never slipped up again. At least, not when it comes to watching his back.

Always one step ahead of the law, and everyone else.

No one knows him. No one has ever really known him. Not his mother, not his brother, not Kath—especially NOT Kath.

No, that’s not true. There is one person who does know him. At least, he hopes she does. Maybe she remembers the good times, he thinks. He needs her to remember the good times because she’s the only way he can return. To try again.

Three strikes Mike, they used to call him. Judge, jury, executioner. He had a code, back then. Everything for a reason. Then he lost it. Lost the moral high ground. One whack on the head and it set him back even further than where he started. Now he’s back to nothing, trying to piece it all together again.

Does God believe in second changes? Hell, he’s on his third. But he’s got to make it right, this time. He’s prayed like he never prayed before. Lots of time to sit and think and replay and beat himself up, beat others up, be angry at the world for the shit hand it dealt him—Michael Caffee, cursed since birth. His mother would say cursed with the temper, but no—that’s not true. He can remember the time when he was different. It was a long time ago, but he remembers that scrawny kid that sat in the library and read until they kicked him out, and who took the books with him and kept them. But that was before. Before his old man took to drink, before the arguments, the screaming, the beatings. Before he had to be a MAN without knowing what a man was, only doing it to protect his siblings and that’s why…

No—another excuse. An explanation. Maybe he didn’t have a choice then, but he’s got one now and maybe, this time…

His therapist talked about pathways and crossroads. What happens when people come to them, the decisions they make—nature and nurture—instinct and fighting against it.

Lots of time to think and dwell and pity himself and pray and struggle and fit. His own memories become his nightmares and it haunts him. All of it.

Michael has always had a moral center. And now he wants—no, he needs to make it right. To show them he’s not the monster they think he is. To show her he’s not what she’s heard.

Things have failed him. People have failed him. The world has failed him. He’s failed himself, but in this, he can’t fail. He can’t afford it. He’s been given another shot—he can’t throw it away, like the last.

The thrum of an engine breaks him of his musings, and he casts a glance out the window as a white SUV pulls into the parking lot. A woman steps up—dark, coily hair pulled up in a messy bun.

Michael ducks low in his seat, so he can’t be seen, but still has a line of seat.

She walks around to the other side of the car, and opens the rear passenger side to reach in.

Two feet, clad in yellow, sparkly sneakers, stick up as the woman bends slightly, arms reaching into the SUV. She stands again, and he gets a fuller view.

He feels his hands start to sweat. His heat beats faster and there’s an achy racing feeling in his chest.

The kid comes into view as she’s hoisted onto her mother’s hip. Tawny curls surround a face of ochre.

He feels something wet on his face.

They turn and go up to the building, disappearing up the stairs.

Michael waits, his breath shaky. So are his hands.

_Get it together, you fuck_ he thinks angrily, to himself. Angry at what—himself. For being weak. For fucking it up in the first place. For being too stupid to realize what he had and what he let go…

_Your fault, your fault your fault…_

He’s had three years to dwell on this moment.

He’d hoped she’d still be here. Hoped she wouldn’t. Dreaded and looked forward to this day and now…

_Shit, or get off the pot_ he tells himself, as he exhales one more time, and quickly wipes at his eyes.

It’s now or never.

Time to face it. To deal with the things he’d left behind. To make peace. To start over, to try again….

He gets out the car and starts walking to the building. The stairs loom as if a gateway to something. He’s been here before. Three years ago, exactly. But he’s not the same person. He’s older. Wiser. Stronger than he was before.

He takes the stairs one by one. Slowly. Intentionally. Never looking down or back. Forward is the only way he can move now. Only forward.

Third floor. First unit on the right.

Never has he forgotten this address. This apartment number. 3202.

Michael closes his eyes. Wipes his hands on his pants. An exhale. A crack of the neck….

_You can do this, you can do this_ …

He wills himself to raise his hand.

Wills himself to knock.

Wills himself to wait…

One second.

Two seconds…

Three…

No. No. No! He’s panicking, It’s the wrong move. The worst plan. She’s better off without him. They’re better off. He should have left well enough alone, he should have…

“Who is it?”

A voice.

Michael doesn’t realize he’s had his eyes closed and they open when he hears her.

“Uh…”

Speechless. He’s practiced this moment but now it’s near and all he wants is to run. It wouldn’t be the first time, right.

“Michael.”

A whisper.

The door cracks open—just barely, and he thinks he’s dreaming, that’s it’s not real, that’s it’s another illusion of a still-broken mind because he swears the door is illuminated in a glow and suddenly, it’s bright light and---

“Michael? What are you doing here?”

It’s her silhouette that speaks to him and it takes him a moment to see her fully as her voice coalescence into a presence before him. Magellan’s soft brown eyes look surprised as they meet his. And it’s all he can do to stay still in the moment.

Because that’s what it is.

A moment.

A third chance.

God really does look after fools.

He finds his voice. But it’s raspier and more broken as he chokes out the words, so simple, but still so heavy.

“Hi, Magpie.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwelcome return brings unwelcome reactions.

  
“Senator! Senator!”

“Last question!” His press secretary shouts above the gaggle of reporters assembled in a loose circle around the man in the middle.

The glare from the lenses of cameras, recorders and cell phones, coupled with the bright lights make Tommy Caffee wince internally. The headache he’s been nursing all day is becoming more of a throb. Still, he maintains his cool, and nods at one of the reporters.

“Josh, yes. You had a question?”

The call for ‘Last Question’ always signals the final few. Tommy has been at this for years. He and the reporters know the game. He’ll take two more, then call the press conference done for the day.

Moments later, with reporters still shouting questions, he excuses and extricates himself from the group, his press secretary acting a sort of informal guard, between him and the capitol press corps. He doesn’t fault the reporters. It’s been a tough budget year all around. Tough choices. No money and too many asks and competing priorities.

The din of noise fades into the background as he slips into a back hallway reserved for Senators and Representatives only, and up the stairwell toward his office.

There, he’s greeted by one of his staffers.

“You have three calls waiting, your two o- ‘clock appointment is here, and your 3 o’clock is running a few minutes late,” she says, handing him notes.

“Oh. And the state attorney’s office called. They said it’s urgent.”

“Did they say what for?” Tommy asks, heading to the small cabinet at the other side of the room. He reaches in, grabs a bottle of Advil, and moves to the mini fridge in the corner for water. He downs both quickly.

Natalie, the assistant shrugs. She’s new. Has only been with him for a few months, and is still learning which calls take priority, and which ones don’t.

“Not really. They just said it’s about a relative of yours?” It’s a question.

Tommy stops, mid-gulp. The headache has suddenly jumped from a throb, to a sharp pain in the middle of his forehead. His hands grip the plastic bottle so hard it begins to fold in on itself. Suddenly, he hears everything. The slow drip coming from the old copper pipes in the ceiling. The sound of traffic outside. The echo of voices bounding down the halls. He hears his own blood…his own heartbeat…

There’s only one reason the state attorney would call him. About a relative.

Tommy Caffee has climbed from representative, to House Speaker, to Senator. He’s considering a run for governor. He and Eileen finally managed to leave the Hill. Their son is two. He thought it was over. He thought it was done.

He should have known better.

“Natalie, could you cancel those meetings, please?” He says, his voice calm and smooth, direct as always. He betrays nothing. Natalie is still too new to really KNOW him.

“Tell Doug I will review his draft language and get back to him tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?” She asks, as he move back to the door and starts to leave.

Her answer is the closing of the door, as Tommy goes back the way he came, back through the hallway reserved for Senators and Representatives, down the stairs, all the way down, to the basement parking lot. An alarm sounds off a few spaces down from where he is. One of the many silver, luxury SUV’s flash its lights.

Tommy gets in. A new car. A definite upgrade from his last 20-year-old wheels. The engine starts, and he pulls out, reaching for his phone. He dials, one hand drumming impatiently on the steering wheel.

A ring.

Two.

Three…

“Answer you fucker...” he mumbles under his breath, eyeing the road. The on-ramp approaches.

“Hello?”

“Decco—why the hell didn’t you SAY anything?! And don’t lie to me. You KNEW. You fuckin’ KNEW.”

Tommy Caffee is no longer calm. He’s enraged. All pretenses fall.

The man on the other end of the line lets out a low, chuckle. It’s dark. Depressing. Tommy can imagine Decco with a bottle in his hand, a line up his nose, and a smirk on his face.

“Yeah, well. It was above my paygrade. But you tell your brother. If he comes back here, he’s a dead man.”

His brother. Michael. It’s always about fuckin’ Michael. Tommy should have known that day three years ago. He knows Michael as well as his very self. And he should have KNOWN Michael would NEVER stay gone.

.

.

“Tommy! What are you doing here, early? I thought you had meetings…” his wife’s voice trails off as she gets her first look at him as he comes through the door. Her dark eyebrows furrow, her sharp eyes melt into concern.

“Tommy, you look flushed. You okay?” Eileen says coming over to him and placing a hand on his arm. Steering him to a seat at the table in their kitchen. Their kitchen, all pristine and white quartz, shiny stainless-steel appliances, and those French doors she had so desperately wanted. He’d made her a promise and worked like a slave to fulfill it… he swallows tightly, closes his eyes a moment and exhales, before finding the words to speak. She’s gone and come back with a glass of water.

“It’s Michael.”

At the name, Eileen freezes. Tommy sees her hand shake a bit.

“What…about Michael?” She asks hesitantly. Quietly. The baby is napping upstairs.

“He’s back.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. But he’s back.”

They look at each other a long while. She hands him the glass and takes a seat next to him.

It’s been three years. So much has happened. So much has changed…

Finally, Eileen looks to him in a way that lets him know she’s made up her mind about something.

“You need to call her. She deserves to know.”

And just like that, Tommy feels his chest tighten. He knows who Eileen is talking about. And he’s not looking forward to making the call.

“Magellan is family, Tommy. Michaela is too.”

.

.

It’s the ringing of the cell phone on the counter that brings her back to reality. Or what she thinks in reality. This apartment is real. Her daughter is real. And so is the man standing in her doorway. But is he? Really? Magellan knows she’s not hallucinating, but… it feels so…surreal.

But Michael is really there. And as she looks at him in shock, she doesn’t know what to say.

Or do.

The ringing of the phone coupled with Michaela’s squeal of “mommy! Phone!” Brings her back to the present and she uses the opportunity to simply walk away, the door open, Michael still there.

“Hello?”

“Magellan? Look. It’s Tommy…I need to tell you something…”

It’s Tommy. Michaela’s uncle. Michael’s brother. At the sound of his frantic voice, Magellan starts laughing. Like a deep, soul laugh, she laughs so hard she begins to cry, and Tommy stops mid-speak. Confused.

“Magellan, did you hear me? He’s back. Michael’s back.”

She’s still laughing. She’s overwhelmed with everything and laughing. And she absolutely cannot stop.

Michael has walked in now, and is standing in the entryway looking at her, puzzled. Her daughter looks up at her, confusion in her big, hazel eyes.

“Really Tommy?!” She finally gasps out, the laughter exhausting itself and coalescing into a white-hot anger. Her words come out with a hiss.

“NO SHIT! He’s standing right here!”

Because it took three years for Magellan Anjulique Taylor to recover after the tornado called Michael Caffee disrupted her already fragile life. And now he’s back, and she knows. She feels…that he’s going to tear it all up again.

And she’s at a loss on what to even begin to do about THIS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I have no idea where this story is heading. No idea, whatsoever. Posting as I write).


End file.
